


Dark Star, Day Star

by opalmatrix



Category: Saiyuki
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Community: 7thnight_smut, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Intrigue, M/M, Magic, Multi, Outdoor Sex, Rescue Missions, weird science
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 16:04:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4926085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opalmatrix/pseuds/opalmatrix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Il Dottore Ugocu's assistant meets a sly fox during La Duchessa's masked ball.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Star, Day Star

**Author's Note:**

  * For [summerbutterfly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerbutterfly/gifts).



> Written for the 2015 7th Night Smut _Saiyuki_ fanfiction exchange ... and I'm hoping I've removed all the text I inadvertently duplicated for the version I submitted on the original site.

"Well, what do you think?" said Il Dottore Ugocu, genially. He turned slowly before the great mirror in his bedchamber, allowing the late afternoon sun to pick out the metamorphoses of his masquerade dress. One moment, and he was a handsome man in a sumptuous doublet of midnight blue brocade, inky black hosen and silken black shirt, deep blue short cape lined with black watered silk, his gleaming black half-mask attached to a chaperon of midnight blue with a long black plume. The next moment, the light hit the mask at just the right angle, and his entire face was that of a skull: The Father as Death. The illusion was remarkable.

"It's marvellous, Dottore," said Arrigo, his voice flat.

Ugoco chuckled, not the least put out. "You know you can call me Gianni," he said, sweetly. "Dama Dobra spent six weeks on this creation. You might at least acknowledge her artistry."

"I will, if I speak to her."

"I don't think this pleat in the doublet skirt is quite right," said Ugocu, pulling at the fabric flaring out from his left hip. Arrigo examined it for a moment.

"I think the stitching at the top of that seam has pulled out," he said.

"Take care of it," said his master, crisply, and went to pour himself a glass of wine from the cut crystal flask on the inlaid table by the curtained bed.

Arrigo took his time going to his own small chamber, down the hall. It was spartan compared to that of the Duchessa's tame miracle worker: a narrow and chaste bed lacking curtains entirely, his plainly made clothes press, a small washstand with a pottery jug and basin, and a shelf of books. The small desk had a hard chair, currently draped with his own masquerade costume, sewed by the renowned masquery mistress' apprentices. His mending basket was right where it ought to be: no one mended Arrigo's clothing but he himself.

He returned, still dawdling. Ugocu had half-finished his glass. His deceptively sleepy eyes followed Arrigo as he entered the room. Il Dottore licked his lips. "Slow-foot," he said. "You merely enjoy your delusion that I don't control you completely."

"I wouldn't be much use to you if you had to control me completely," said Arrigo, kneeling and placing the basket on the tiled floor by his master's feet. They were clad in slippers of fine black Segunto leather. Arrigo threaded his needle with black silk and set to work mending and reinforcing the split seam. "You could have Camillo do this," he said.

"But he is so careless in comparison with you, Arrigo. You are working with artistry so that the line of the doublet will be enhanced. And I so appreciate the touch of your lovely hands there on my hip."

Arrigo's lips tightened on the remarks he would never allow himself to make. Ugocu was a demon of the worst sort, but he was Arrigo's only hope. He used his tiny silver scissors to clip the thread: no need to entertain Ugocu by biting it off, thereby bringing his lips so near his master's arse.

Ugocu's hand settled on Arrigo's hair, tousling it fondly. Arrigo stayed where he was, as still as death. Ugocu sighed and stepped away from him. "Get dressed, and come back to let me inspect you. No dawdling. La Duchessa appreciates punctuality."

Back in his own room, Arrigo stripped to his drawers and wiped himself down with herb-scented water. His costume was in many ways a plainer version of Ugocu's own: black shirt and doublet, blue hosen, But over it all went an open-work tunic of silver ribbons, and his black mask was rayed round the top with long silver points. More silver ribbons trailed from it across his head and down over his rough-cut dark brown hair. On his feet he wore his own best shoes, plain black leather, new from Ucogu last Yule.

Down the hall again to Ucogu's suite. How many heartbeats did he waste thus, dancing to his master's bidding? Il Dottore was sitting on his velvet-topped dressing stool, allowing Camillo to insert a jet eardrop. The master's pet had already bedecked the man's hands with rings of white gold set with somber gems: dark sapphires, dusky morion, and more jet. Camillo was dressed as a Cherub of Love, in a white doublet slashed with gold tissue, small white feathered wings, and shirt and hosen in pale pink. He smirked over his lord's shoulder at Arrigo, the port wine mark over his right eye giving him the look of a pied rat terrier, despite his golden hair and rosy cheeks.

"Stop messing about, boy," said Ugocu. "Get that blasted thing settled. Come in, Arrigo, and let me see. Ah. You look charming. Except for that countenance. Smile for me."

Arrigo did something with his lips and eyes. It wasn't a smile, but Ugocu was welcome to think so.

"That's better. Look at yourself in the mirror."

Arrigo looked, obediently. Somewhat to his surprise, he looked … beautiful. The simple lines of the doublet showed off his slim waist and hips, and its padding enhanced his shoulders. His green eyes looked enormous, framed by the dark mask, and his pale lips seemed to smile serenely.

"He needs some paint," said Camillo, critically, then yelped as Ugocu pinched his nearer buttock.

"You're right, my little Eros," said Ugocu cheerfully. "Don't frown, Arrigo. Just a touch of rouge on that pretty mouth, and you'll be a truly lovely Evening Star. Go fetch it, Camillo."

Moments later they all walked down the hallway, down the tower stairs at the north corner of the palacio, and through the portrait gallery. Camillo's birthmark was covered by his white and gold mask, and Arrigo was trying hard not to lick at the bitter-tasting rose-red unguent on his lips. Camillo put out a foot to trip him, and Arrigo hopped over it easily and jabbed the brat with an elbow. "Stop that, both of you," said Ugocu. "Embarrass me in front of Her Excellency, and you will regret it for weeks."

He nodded at the huge painting they were passing: La Duchessa Rigardettina, Il Duce Guidobaldo's first wife and mother of his only son, painted as if standing on her garden terrace with the palaces and canals of the city behind her, a white rose in one hand. But as one gazed upon the image captured in the paint, the dark lovely eyes grew filled with pain, the almond-shaped shaped nails became crabbed claws, and the rose-colored lips parted in a soundless scream.

"You aren't the one who imprisoned her soul thus," said Arrigo, although his stomach was cold. The painting was a terrible, revolting thing, and the fact that it still hung in the gallery spoke volumes about La Duchessa Gostanza, mistress of Bartaria and of them all.

"No, I am not," said Ugocu, "But I'm learning more of how it was done with each passing day." He fixed his dark eyes on Arrigo's, and Arrigo's breath stopped within him. He could not feel his hands or feet, and his vision went grey and small. His body screamed for air, but he could not fill his lungs nor feel his heart beat. The small space he could still see was a rapidly shrinking disc, centered on those dark and empty eyes.

"Enough," said Ugocu, his voice mild, and he snapped his fingers.

Suddenly Arrigo could breathe again. Never had the faintly musty air of the palacio tasted so sweet. He staggered and crumpled against the painted plaster next to the golden frame of Rigardettina's painting. Camillo was on his knees at Ugocu's feet, his face almost as white as his mask.

Ugocu clucked at them reprovingly. "Boys, boys! This is meant to be a jolly occasion. It's Carnival Eve! Straighten up, Arrigo. On your feet, Camillo. You better not have marked your hosen!"

He turned and strode away. Camillo lurched up off the floor, brushing futilely at his pink knees. Fortunately, the marble was almost immaculate, scrubbed afresh for the masquerade ball by the Duchessa's fearful servants. "This is all your fault," he hissed at Arrigo. "You're mad, challenging our master like that!"

He ran off after Il Dottore, and Arrigo followed. He could hear music and smell food and expensive perfumes as they approached the lesser entryway to the Grande Salone where Ugocu was waiting for them. He looked them over with a critical eye. "Straighten up. Smile." They responded like automatons, and he sighed. "No, like you mean it. Camillo, you may have as many sweets as you wish, but if you vomit in front of the company, you won't be able to sit for a week. Arrigo, get a glass of wine and try to get yourself laid. It might improve your mood."

He turned from them and stepped into the great room, his movements carelessly graceful now. They followed in his wake, weaving among the lavishly costumed courtiers as he approached his patroness.

"Well, well," said La Duchessa, and smiled like a knife of Tanascene steel. "Il Dottore Ugocu. And your dear students, of course. Camillo, you look delicious. And Arrigo: how you've grown!" Her gaze slithered across him, turning his stomach all over again.

Gostanza was dressed as the Queen of Wands from the Tarocco deck, in a long gown of yellow-gold brocade over white silk. Golden sunflowers made up her half-mask and topped her gilt scepter. Her gold mural crown was set with tigers-eye and topazes. She extended her free hand, decorated with rings of gold and yellow sapphire, to her pet scholar, who bowed to kiss it. As he straightened, their eyes locked, muddy brown and tawny yellow. Arrigo realized, with relief, that he had no need to worry about carnal interest from this woman. Ugocu owned her, body and soul.

Unless his master would find it amusing. _Damn him._ It was possible.

"Dottore Ugocu, come speak with Padrone Accorso. He has an interest in your work," said Gostanza, turning to an older man in the somber dress of a priest of the Church of the Father, his mask a plain black domino.

"Run and play, boys," said Ucogu, without looking at either of them. Camillo at once dashed off toward a long table laden with platters of cakes adorned with painted sugar flowers, dishes of shimmering jellies, and silver bowls of ices, beaded with moisture as they nestled in their beds of snow, brought down from the Montes Altes at fearful expense.

The musicians struck up a lively galliarda, and circles of dancers began to gather, a riot of color and movement. Arrigo saw women garbed as flowers, as pagan goddesses of elder times, as spirits of the sea and the wood, seasons temperate or chilly, or dancing girls of the eastern courts; men dressed as bandits or pirates, kings or knights of the chess board, godlings, beasts, or demons. Here a sea nymph danced with a fox, his red-gold tail brushing her diaphanous green overskirt as they passed back to back; there a white-and-rose lily looked demurely down at her wine glass as the Knight of Coins whispered, grinning, in her ear, his half mask made of two gold florins, his doublet wine-purple slashed with leaf green.

Arrigo let one of the servants hand him a glass of green-gold liquid, vino verdetta from the valleys of the north. He sipped it: it was cool and refreshing, likely chilled in the same barrels of snow that had let the cooks create the amazing ices. La Duchessa and Ugocu were nearly invisible behind a crowd of hangers-on and sycophants. It was almost possible to imagine that he was here of his own will, merely one of the dozens of young men enjoying the city's grandest masquerade.

Almost: in truth, he had never been one for such loud and boisterous events. He drifted through the crowd until he reached the wall, where gold branches tipped with huge candles of honey-scented wax from Tiaff in the north were reflected by precious glass mirrors, and then stepped silently along until he found one of the servants' entrances, half-hidden with rich red draperies. He slipped out and circled around back to the portrait gallery.

There, in front of Rigardettina's portrait, was Dama Lizetta, gazing up at the image of her beloved half-brother's mother. Unsurprisingly, she was dressed as the Princess of Wands, to match her own mother's costume. Her golden gown's sleeves were slashed and dagged in flamelike patterns and turned back to reveal their tawny lining, while her arms were cased in the sheer ivory silk of her shift. Her tawny hair tumbled down her back in elaborate ringlets, with twists of gold ribbon peeking through here and there.

She turned at his step. Her sturdy waist was tightly laced, and her gown's neckline showed her precociously buxom bosom, barely concealed by the silken shift. There were drops of amber in her ears, but her tawny hazel eyes were oddly somber behind her sunflower mask. To his surprise, Arrigo felt protective: she was on display here tonight for the highest bidder in terms of a marriage alliance. Before Conte Cosimo had been dispatched abroad on the Duchessa's business, Lizetta had spent her days dogging him from practice field to stableyard, often clad in boy's clothes, eluding her governess. She had joked with his faithful man-at-arms Domenico, who had treated her as though she were a younger brother of his own, play-boxing with her and carrying her on his broad shoulders. Now she was awkwardly crammed into a debutante's role, and her loneliness was sharp enough to touch.

"Were you frightened by picture, medama?" Arrigo said. She was so different from his sister Catarina, and yet she was only a child, as Rina had been once.

"Oh, no," said Lizetta. "My brother's mother isn't scary at all."

Arrigo looked sideways at the painting and caught his breath. The empty eyes were now focussed on the maiden below, the rosy mouth smiled gently, and the clawed hand was instead palm up and open, with a goldfinch perched upon it.

"Do you think she would have liked me?" asked Lizetta.

"I am certain of it, medama," said Arrigo.

She looked at him for a moment, as though gauging his honesty, then grinned like her usual urchin self. "I'd better get back before Mama misses me," she said, and picking up her skirts, she dashed away back to Grande Salone.

Arrigo looked after her a moment and sighed. How long until her mother married her off to the Conte of Treniso, who had buried three wives, or the Marchese of Giambarre, whose collection of mistresses rivaled the harem of the Dey of Offresar?

A flash of movement past the doors of the salon distracted him. The fox masquer whom he had noticed earlier was slipping out through the set of doors opposite, which led to the terrace and the gardens. His partner was not the sea nymph with whom he was dancing earlier, but a somewhat older woman, dark skinned and clothed as the ancient wine goddess in gold wreathed with green vine leaves and little clusters of purple grapes, a flask in one hand. Arrigo could see the ends of the fox's long hair beneath the cowl attached to his mask: it gleamed almost as red as the coat of the creature being impersonated. There was a flash of the fox's white teeth below the snout of his mask, and the answering gleam of the goddess' eyes behind her gold-rimmed purple mask. And then they were gone.

Arrigo glanced about him. No one else was near: he was alone with the enchanted portrait. He walked nonchalantly to the terrace doors, leaving his wineglass on a small table littered with half a dozen others. The fox and the goddess were racing down the torch-lit stairs to the gardens, laughing and bumping against each other. Arrigo followed them, trying not to appear hurried. He was beginning to enjoy himself for once. The night air was soft and warm, and he could see that the garden pavilions were lighted as well, flickering gleams appearing and vanishing through the gently waving branches of the trees.

He tiptoed quickly down the stairs and onto the stepping stones of the path at their foot. As he passed between rows of shapely evergreens, he realized that he had lost his quarry: the path split ahead of him, and he had no notion of which way the other two had gone.

He chose the left-hand path, thinking of the ballad in which that choice was the path of wickedness. He passed one of the pavilions, lighted with a small candle lantern but empty. A flash of movement showed ahead of him, and he whisked soundlessly into the pavilion and hid behind the bench with its elaborately wrought iron-work bench.

To his disappointment, it was not the fox and the goddess, but a pair of young women, flushed and giddy: a deep pink rose with tumbled petals of velvet over her paler pink skirt and a slender new moon in dark blue draperies and a silver mask. Very pretty, very intriguing to think about, but they were not what Arrigo had on his mind right now. He kept thinking about the fox's throat, the cords of his neck, the humorous eyes glimpsed through the eyeholes of the mask, the way his fingers encircled the lady's wrist. After the pretty girls had disappeared around the curve of the path, Arrigo continued on, deeper into the gardens.

A rustling of branches sounded off to his left, followed by a soft gasp. Arrigo left the path, threading his way among branches prickly with needles or cool with young leaves. The way ahead was faintly lit: he must be approaching another pavilion from the rear. The shadows ahead of him resolved into a most arresting sight: a woman with her skirts pulled up around her plump legs, and beneath them a man, kneeling. Her eyes were half-closed, and she was panting with aroused lust. Faint, moist sounds told Arrigo why.

To his disappointment, there was no fox tail attached to this man's derriere: he seemed heavier than the beast Arrigo was hunting, as well. And the woman was dressed, scandalously, as a Sister of Clemency from the Church of the Mother, in a dove grey gown and mask, snow-white apron and wimple. Still, Arrigo was frozen in his place by the sight of their play.

"Holy shit," said a soft, deep voice off to his right.

The fox was crouched there, the goddess' wine bottle in one hand, the other over his own groin. He was, of course, also watching the intriguing tableau.

"Oh," said Arrigo, blankly. The fox's snout turned toward him, and the wide mouth beneath the painted nose smiled. The fox held the wine bottle out toward him, an unmistakable invitation. Arrigo took it without thinking, unstoppered it, and drank. It was a rich red, full-bodied and tasting of fruit. He passed it back. "Thank you," he said, but the fox hushed him, a finger to his lips, his dark eyes smiling into Arrigo's. 

Arrigo doubted that the couple had heard them at all. The woman threw back her head, her breath panting out in little yelps. Her lover's fingers were digging into her bared thigh. "Oh, stop," she whimpered. "You're killing me, I am dying, dying!"

"Really?" said her partner, muffled by her skirts. "You sang another song a very few minutes ago."

In answer, she collapsed beside him, dragging him down with her, still entangled in her habit. He fought his way free, and meanwhile in the scented shrubs, the bottle went back and forth between Arrigo and the fox.

The lovers were embracing and kissing. Arrigo thought of how the man's lips must taste of the woman and felt dizzy. The fox's breath was coming short. At last the sister and the man, who was dressed as a wilding of the forest in a shaggy over-tunic marked with leopard spots, hauled each other upright and wandered off, arm in arm.

"Ah, that was sweet," said the fox. "What a gentleman, to give her her will without demanding his own."

"Perhaps he'd already had his due," said Arrigo. "You weren't here to see, were you?" 

"Nah, I showed up just when he went down on his knees. First bit of luck I had all evening."

"What became of your goddess?" asked Arrigo. He bit his tongue: clearly he'd had enough wine. He held out the bottle, apologetically. His host grinned and tipped it back into his mouth.

"Lovely stuff," he said. "No, this was all I had of her. She's much too noble a woman for a roll in the garden with a rogue like myself."

"Didn't I see you with a sea nymph, earlier? I'm sure you can find some willing creature back in the palacio."

The fox's grin grew sharper, and he set down the empty bottle. "And there you sit with your pretty mouth and your eyes like two beryls behind your mask. I'll not look any further tonight." He grabbed Arrigo's shoulder, pulled him from where he knelt, and kissed him.

Arrigo's first thought was how clever the fellow was to be able to manage this despite the snouted mask. His second was that he had been waiting a long time for this sweet heat, without knowing it. The fox was stroking Arrigo's lips with his soft, strong tongue; his lips were warm and firm. Arrigo opened to him and slid his arms around that long, strong neck. The fox rolled and pulled, and they tumbled together to the soft duff beneath the shrubs.

Arrigo was not quite a virgin, but his few experiences as a boy barely into manhood had not prepared him for this. It hardly seemed to matter. The fox knew quite well what he was about, and Arrigo had only to follow the fox's example and his own desires. Hands were caressing his belly under his doublet and shirt, untying the ribbons of his codpiece, drawing out his member, stroking it to greater hardness. Arrigo gasped and reached under the skirts of the fox's doublet, but his hands were batted away. He moaned at the loss of contact with his rod. 

Then his own hands were placed firmly on another piece of flesh, so similar to his own, and then the delicious attentions began again. Lips were pressing against his neck, placing kisses from jaw to the juncture with his shoulder, and teeth nipped there. The fox sucked the skin he had broken with his teeth. Arrigo whimpered and thrust against the creature who held him pinned, then shivered and came with such force that stars of light exploded beneath his tight-shut eyelids.

In the weakness that followed, he heard the fox in his ear, a whispered plea: "Holy Mother, don't stop!" Arrigo's hands seemed scarcely connected to his will, but he forced himself to squeeze, to stroke, until the man lying half atop him shuddered and gasped and at last had his own little death.

For a few moments they lay there, their sweat cooling beneath their festive garb. Faint sounds of other lovers drifted to them, and sometimes a snatch of song or a burst of laughter. Finally, much too near, they could hear the sound of a mandolin, and a woman started to sing. The pavilion whose tiny lamp dimly lit their earthen couch was occupied. The fox propped himself on one elbow and winked wearily at Arrigo, then produced a large handkerchief from his sleeve and began, silently, to clean them up. Fortunately, most of their spendings had fallen to the ground.

The fox rose gracefully to his feet and adjusted his mask, then reached a hand down for Arrigo's. He pulled Arrigo upright, and then something happened, a confusion of strong hands and something else. And Arrigo found himself facing away from his love of the past few moments, with his hands bound behind his back.

"Don't make a sound," breathed the fox, and Arrigo felt the feathery edge of a properly honed blade touching his throat, so near to where those hot kisses had fallen before. "Walk," said the fox, very low, and so Arrigo did.

His thoughts were racing. Was the fellow an assassin? If so, Arrigo himself was unlikely to be a target. Perhaps he was about to be questioned and then discarded. Il Dottore and Her Ladyship had large numbers of enemies. Perhaps Cosimo had finally wearied of waiting for his mother to be released from her enchantment while he was used as a catspaw in his stepmother's war on the Bishop of the Three Isles and his protege, Father Xandre. No, Cosimo was as virtuous as his stepmother was evil: he would never stoop to using an assassin.

The fox had walked them through the wilder parts of the garden to the gates that led to the menial back portions of the palacio: the kitchen garden, the stables, the river dock, and the old freestanding tower that Ugocu used as both a laboratory and a prison for his experimental subjects. Usually there were two guards standing at the gates. After a moment, Arrigo located both of them crumpled on the ground. And the gate was slightly ajar. Despite the knife, he turned his head to look at the fox. "Dead?" he whispered. He could feel the blood trickling down his neck, but the cut scarcely stung: a very sharp knife indeed.

"Drugged wine. They'll awaken tomorrow morning, maybe,"

"You?"

The only answer was a brief flash of white teeth in a grimace without humor. The fox's eyes were bleak.

"Ugocu will wake them much sooner and learn of you," said Arrigo.

"Busy, ain't he? And besides, can he really do that without you?"

Arrigo's lips parted with surprise.

"Yeah," said the fox, his voice scarcely more than a cat's purr. "I heard about you. The guy said, the mad doctor has a new student. A pretty boy with green eyes, and a scarred belly where Conte Millepiedi's heir ripped him open after the massacre in the Fortezza di Ombre. This boy has the true power to heal. You're older than he made you sound, though."

"What do you want?" said Arrigo, feeling fear at last. This man knew too much.

"Where's Cosimo's man?" hissed the fox.

"Domenico?" Arrigo could have bitten his tongue. Why hadn't he pretended to know nothing? Domenico had been gone from the palacio for more than two years; Arrigo had known him barely seven weeks, for all anyone but Ugocu and Camillo knew. Even La Duchessa didn't know that he was on the grounds of the palacio once more.

The fox locked eyes with Arrigo. "Yeah," he said, and death was in that single syllable.

"If I show you, you're going to kill me anyway," said Arrigo, and dear Father of Heaven, how cold and steady his voice sounded to his own ears.

"No, I won't," said the fox. "My oath is good. I swear on my mother's grave, and on the Mother's tits. I'll be well away before your master finds you, so it won't matter what you tell him."

"Are you Cosimo's man too?"

To his surprise, the fox actually grinned. "No way in hell," he said.

"Then what is Domenico to you, that you've walked into this lion's den?"

"Lioness' den, right? You don't need to know that. I get him, you live. C'mon, we don't have all night."

Arrigo debated with himself, but what was the use? And wouldn't it be pleasant to see Ucogu thwarted for once? "You'll need to knock me out afterward, as though I interrupted you and were bested, or my master will take it very ill, and I will suffer the consequences."

"I can do that," said the fox. "Where are we going, handsome?"

"The tower."

They paced forward like a thing and its shadow, Arrigo before, the fox behind. The door faced half around from the windows of the servants' wing. Arrigo stopped. "I need to get the key from the chain around my neck."

"I'll do it," said the fox. "And don't try anything funny. Remember how fast I got you tied."

Arrigo felt fingers at his neck, scrabbling down inside the doublet's collar and under his shirt. Then the key was drawn out and the fox released Arrigo's bound wrists to unlock and open the door. Arrigo stood passively, committed to his course. The fox shoved him inside and closed the door behind him. They were in Ugocu's study, lit faintly by the slow candle inside its glass lantern. "Now where?" asked the fox.

"The door to the left. Its key is inside the desk, in the back of the drawer to the left as one sits."

The fox marched him over to the stone wall behind the desk and crouched to feel for the drawer and the second key, watching Arrigo from the corners of his eyes. Arrigo saw by his expression when he'd found the key, and then as the fox turned his eyes back to Arrigo, they widened suddenly. "Holy Mother in Heaven!" said the fox.

He was looking past Arrigo. It took Arrigo a moment to understand; he had long ago become accustomed to Ugocu's working drawings, sketched by Camillo and inked by Arrigo himself, pinned to the wooden lathes bolted to the stone walls: men and women flayed, eviscerated, with limbs amputated, and yet living; monstrous fetuses in glass vessels, with stubby wings and extra limbs; a living head on a platter of burning coals; and more.

"Is that what he really does?" said the fox.

"Oh yes."

"Do you … help him?" The fox's face not covered by his mask had paled visibly, even in the dim light.

"How do you think they are still living?" said Arrigo, making no attempt to hide his bitterness.

"Gods damn you!"

"Oh yes, I am sure that they will."

The fox swallowed, as though the wine he had shared with Arrigo was going to emerge once again. "You don't care?"

"You know so much, Signore Fox. Do you know why I killed all the Millepiedi?"

"I heard that they killed your sister."

"Yes. They planned her to marry the Conte, and when she refused, they raped her. Repeatedly. Over weeks. I meant to rescue her, but when I found her, pregnant by who knows which of them, she took my dagger and killed herself."

The fox's appalled face softened. "I hear you. But this?"

"You know that Duce Guidobaldo died ten years ago. Il Dottore has promised our mistress that he will revive Il Duce from death. And he has promised me that he will revive my sister, first, supposedly as proof of his technique."

"But she killed herself!" The fox looked outraged now.

"Yes, but … if I had a chance to talk to her, if I could persuade her … ."

"To live for you, and bear that child of rape? If she doesn't want to? That's a hell of a way to treat your sister."

"I suppose you have a raped sister, so you know," said Arrigo, as coldly as he could to cover his own doubts.

The fox scowled. Then: "Domenico is my half-brother. I'd never have reached the age of twelve years without him."

It seemed irrelevant, but Arrigo realized the implication of similarity between the two of them: brothers who loved their siblings and would risk much for them. Still, he stared at the dark eyes, the tawny skin, the ends of the red hair shining in the dimness from beneath the cowl with its pricked ears. Domenico was fair skinned and black haired, with blue-grey eyes. But the jawline was the same. "We'd better hurry," said Arrigo. "There's a candlestick on the bookshelf there. Light it from the slow candle." 

The fox's face lost some of its tension. He did as Arrigo said and opened the door, revealing the stairs coiling downward. "I could untie your wrists," he said.

"Better not," said Arrigo. "But I'll lead you."

It was a slow, uncomfortable trip down the uneven stone steps with no hands to reach out for balance. The fox had to steady him several times. He was quick and perceptive, and Arrigo made it to the prison level unscathed. Gasps of horror and groans of pain greeted the arrival of the light. The fox started to look around. "Don't," said Arrigo. "You don't want to know. The keys to the cells are on the ring there, on the wall. And the second ring has the keys for the manacles. He's in the third cell along to the left."

The fox found the correct key and went to open the cell, then stopped and looked back at Arrigo. "What … what did you do to him, you and your master?"

"Nothing much, as yet. He's a hostage and a source of information, thus far. Not that he's said much."

The fox released a pent breath, relieved, and unlocked and opened the door. "Jehan?" he said, and stepped into the cell. "Jehan, it's me. Wake up."

Not Domenico. But Arrigo had known that "Domenico" could not have been the real name. Now that he could only hear the fox's voice, he realized how similar it was to that of the Conte's man. "Gui?" said Domenico, and it could have been the same person, save Domenico's slightly deeper tone: a bigger man, although he had lost considerable flesh in the weeks he had been Ugocu's guest.

The fox—Gui— came out, supporting his brother with one of Domenico's arms drawn across his shoulders. He eased him down on the guard's stool near the key hooks. The big man was stripped to the waist, the marks of Ucogu's whimsical tortures making precise patterns of oozing flesh down his arms and bracketing his spine. "You'll be wanting some clothing to hide those marks," said Arrigo. "The prisoner's clothing is in the cupboard there, past the cells. What hasn't been shredded to rags, anyway."

While the fox rummaged in the cupboard, Domenico looked at Arrigo with weary, wary eyes. "You. Why the hell are you working with my brother?"

"He did tie me. And threaten me with a knife, and drug the guards."

"Your master won't buy that as enough of a reason."

"That's not your problem, is it?"

Domenico stared at him, finally shaking his head disbelievingly as the fox came back. "You trust him?" he asked his younger brother.

"Not much, but enough," said the fox.

Everything was rather too small for Domenico, but a somewhat tattered shirt under a battered leather jerkin at least covered the strange regularity of his wounds. The fox turned to Arrigo at last. "Right. Thanks. And sorry for this."

He produced from under the skirts of his russet doublet a small club, strangely flexible. A small leather sack filled with sand, Arrigo realized, and remembered how the fox had batted his hands away during their romp.

There was no point in thinking of it as lovemaking.

The fox grabbed his shoulder, raised the weapon, and light and pain blossomed from the side of Arrigo's head. The last thing he saw was the fox's eyes, watching him sadly from the eyeholes of the mask.

* * * * * * * * * 

Father Xandre set down the missive he was reading and removed his gold-framed spectacles. As always, Guion was struck by how unfairly beautiful his master was. _Holy Mother, such a fucking waste._

"Your brother has rejoined Conte Cosimo in his camp near Tszur," said Xandre. "His aide Iolanta has sent us his thanks, and he's promised to hold off any new attacks until after the winter. That's as long as he can afford to stall. Good work, Miseur Sault." He rummaged in the small chest that Guion knew was underneath the desk and produced a small but heavy-looking purse, which he pushed across toward Guion. 

Guion grabbed it. Yeah, must be a good thirty escues in there. Still: "I did it for my brother. Not for pay."

Xandre held up one fine-boned hand and pushed his words away. "Spare me, cockroach. You have expenses, even if you don't bother with your accounting. Go pay your rent and buy some liquor, and get out of my hair for a while."

Guion stared pointedly at his master's golden hair, which was longer than a priest's ought to be, then turned to go, jingling the purse annoyingly as he went.

"One more thing," said Xandre, just as he reached the door.

"What, you damn chain-jerking priest?" said Guion, spinning on his heel and looking over his shoulder at his employer.

"There's a new recruit in the buttery. Gobin's been talking fellow's ears off for the last hour. Go rescue him, find him a place to stay, and tell him what's what. I'll see you both two hours before noon tomorrow."

"Am I dismissed now?" said Guion, with extra-impolite politeness, just because.

Xandre, already deep in his next report with his spectacles once more in place, waved him off without a word.

Guion could hear Gobin the minute he turned the corner to the rooms used by Xandre's band for training, briefings, and meals. "An' we almost never lose a man—or woman— 'cause Father Xandre knows just what each of us can do, an' he never makes mistakes with assignments. An' he can explain just about anything to anyone, too. I never thought I'd ever learn t' speak Tarabrese, but two months ago, I passed as a merchant's clerk in Tezo. Sold a dozen lengths of brocade to the Prima Patrizia's wardrobe mistress, too! Father Xandre never minds if we make the odd soule, as long as it's honest. Hey, aren't you gonna eat your tart? Frobert's cherry tarts are the best!"

"You already had six, you little ape!" said Guion, as he stepped into the room. Gobin pulled a face at him. The new recruit was sitting with his back to the door. Guion saw a mop of dark brown hair, apparently just growing out from a monkish crop, and a pair of thin but straight shoulders clad in a dark green capelet over a rusty black doublet and worn but clean shirt. The fellow turned in his seat to look at Guion with green eyes that he'd had last seen behind a black mask framed with silver rays.

"Arrigo Cioffi!" said Guion, after a moment that stretched awkwardly long.

"Indeed," said the mad doctor's man. "And here you are!"

"What the hell are you doin' here?"

"After I woke in my room, with Ugocu beaming at me, it seemed to me to be a good thing to pretend to an impairment of the mind from my injury. I have had more than enough experience with such maladies to know the symptoms, and without my skills at his disposal, he was unable to determine that it was a deception. In the end, he sent me to a monastery in the Montes Altes, at the Golden Pass. No one paid much mind to the half-wit waiting on the travelers at the hostel there, and after a few weeks, I put together an educated guess as to who might have sent an agent to free Cosimo's man. Still, I was unsure as to how accurate my deduction was, until this very moment."

"He told me what the man he was lookin' for looked like, an' that he was called Gui," said Gobin. "I said it must be you. I said we had a red-headed cockroach named Guion."

"Very funny," said Guion. "I'm takin' Signor Arrigo away, before you tell him any more bullshit."

"That's not his name anymore," Gobin informed him. "Father Xandre gave him a new one. You gotta call him Meseur Henri."

"That right? I can manage that. Come on, Meseur Henri, I think my lodging might have a room for you."

Guion hurried out. It was hard for him to fake a good nonchalant attitude with Gobin, who was getting uncomfortably sharp about people even if he still chattered like a dimwitted squirrel most of the time, and harder still to keep from turning around every dozen steps to make sure the newly renamed Henri was still there, carrying his one small bundle. Guion had never expected to see the guy again in this life.

They crossed the street from the Hostlery of the Eldest Son to the white-washed Bear and Bowl, its freshly painted sign sporting a grinning she-bear hoisting an old-fashioned wine basin. Yvo the porter waved them through the archway into the yard, and Guion crossed the pebbled expanse, planted with almond trees, to poke his head into the kitchen. "Mama Bear? Got a new man from Father X's crew. He needs a room."

The proprietress looked up from the bread dough she was pummeling into submission while the new kitchen maid watched and (it was to be hoped) learned. "There's one just opened next to yours, meseur, and another up on the top floor. Put 'im in or the other and let Sendice know which. What about supper? You eating in?"

"Yeah, and Henri here can eat with me. At the seventh hour, Mama?"

"You have it, meseur. Now get out of my kitchen."

Guidon chuckled and stepped back out into the yard. Henri was looking at him, bemused. "'Mama Bear'?"

"Her name's Ursulin: you know, 'she-bear.' And then there's the name of the place, too: the Bear and Bowl. Here, let's go put your gear into whichever room you want."

They went up the stairs, Guion's gut tightening. The last time this gorgeous guy had seen him, Guion had hit him in the head with a sap. But he'd traveled more than a hundred leagues to find Guion. It could be awful to make the wrong guess why. "My rooms are right here," Guion said, opening his own door and trying hard to sound like it was nothing important. "Here's the empty room. Want to see the other one, upstairs?"

It was a small room, clean like all the rooms at the Bear, with a narrow but comfortable bed, a clothes press, a washstand with a basin and pitcher, and a table with a straight chair. The one window looked out over the alley. Guion had a much better set-up, with a sitting room and a curtained bed in the bed chamber, but then, he'd been living here and drawing pay from the church for years.

"This is fine," said Henri and put his bundle down on the table.

"Key's right in the lock. Need some time t' settle in? Just come knock on my door when you're ready, and I'll fill ya in about Father X's operation and our crew."

"I'm ready right now," said Henri. "Gobin took excellent care of me." He drew the door of his new room shut and locked it, then put the key into the small purse hanging from his belt. He looked at Guion, his face just the least bit worried.

Guion cleared his throat. "Well, c'mon then."

He shut the door of his sitting room behind them both and gestured to one of the two cushioned chairs at his table. "Have a seat. I'll get us a bottle … ."

Henri was not sitting down, nor was he looking at Guion's Offrean rug or the weapons displayed on the walls. "Meseur Guion."

"Just Guion, right? We're colleagues now, Xandre said."

"I've wanted to see you again so badly."

"I … really?" He winced. He hated sounding stupid, especially here, now, with this man. "Guess I owe you? For the bang on the head?"

Henri blinked and then smiled. "I suppose you do, but that wasn't why I travelled from Istrea to find you."

"What, then?"

"This is so awkward," said Henri. "But … was it hard, for you? To … well, to seduce me? Gobin went to great lengths in describing your exploits with the ladies of the town. But I have been thinking about our tryst ever since."

Guion gaped at him.

Henri flushed. "Perhaps I ought to take the other room, after all." He turned to go. But as he lifted the latch, Guion's wits unsnarled themselves at last.

"No way in hell!" he said, and grabbed Henri by one shoulder. His new colleague turned and looked into his eyes, and Guion kissed him.

The gods only knew what Henri had been doing for inspiration since Carnival last spring, but he'd become a hell of a kisser. All of Guion's blood was starting to pool between his legs, and then Henri bit him on the lip. Guion yelped before he could stop himself.

Henri _smirked_ , the pretty little bastard. "That's for the knock on the head," he said.

There was still the smallest bit of uncertainty in his beautiful green eyes, but Guion was more than happy to overlook it for him. His lip was bleeding, but he smirked back. "I don't think that's enough. Why don't you come into the bedchamber with me, and I can start making it up to you?"

"What an excellent idea," said Henri, and he sounded good now. "Perhaps I should bar the door?"

"That's a good idea too. We make a great team, yeah?"

"Oh yes," said Henri. "I think we will."

 


End file.
